Left 4 Dead: Survivors
by Solar Eclipse23
Summary: A violent, nation-wide infection outbreak forces several strangers together to fight for their lives. Meanwhile, small pockets of survivors struggle to hold out against the horde, even as they realize the zombies are not the only demons they have to face.
1. Outbreak

"Ana Cortez, please report to ICU Room Four. I repeat: Ana Cortex, ICU Room Four. Thank you."

She set down the sheaf of papers and shot a tired glare at the PA speaker mounted to the wall above the administration desk. Cora, the other nurse at the station, shot her a sympathetic look. "What is this, fourth time in the hour?"

Ana sighed loudly, massaging her temples with her index fingers. "Yeah. All about the same case, too."

Cora's fingers were busy flying over her keyboard as she periodically glanced down at a patient report. "The patient they quarantined in Radiology?"

"The very same." She brushed at the wrinkles on her faded green uniform and stood up. The hospital was in disarray today. She could hear the sirens from the ambulances outside even from her post on the fourth floor, and harried doctors had been rushing past all day, barking orders at the residents trailing behind them. Even the patients looked tense, as though they could sense the atmosphere was not that of a normal hospital.

"I thought they were keeping him separate from the rest of the patients," Cora piped up as Ana strode away from behind the nurse station.

"They are," she called over her shoulder.

And for good reason.

She had seen him for the first time yesterday. Patient Zero, they were calling him. She'd been instructed to pick up the results for several of his MRI scans, and had walked into the overseer's booth above the room. Three doctors—Carmack, Rosenberg and Ashford—were peering down into the room, their faces inherently grim.

"Ana? Good, you're here," Ashford had said, in his twitchy, nervous way. He shoved a messy pile of brain-scan images into her hand. "Please take these to Dr. Wong at once."

Ana frowned. Dr. Wong was one of the most talented doctors at Mercy Hospital, and the go-to guy for every seemingly hopeless or abstract case that surfaced. "Is there a problem, Dr. Ashford?"

"N-no problem, no problem," he muttered feebly, glancing back down into the room and seemingly paling at what he saw. Ana inched forward and peered downward. She caught a brief glimpse of a thrashing, white-gowned body being forced onto a gurney by four other men, each wearing gas masks. The flailing patient was snarling, too—deep, guttural snarls that seemed to seep right through the observation booth and into Ana's core. As she watched in astonishment, the man's flailing arm seized upon one of the masked men's wrists, brought a white-gloved hand towards his face, and bit down.

An agonized scream floated up from below. Ana gasped as she saw the masked man stagger back, clutching the gaping wound where his thumb used to be. Blood coursed over the once-white glove, splattering across the patient's face as he ripped his head back and forth—

"Ana." She felt Rosenberg's heavy hand on her thin shoulder, tightening as he steered her out the door. "You don't want to see this."

She shuddered deeply. That had been less than eighteen hours ago. Since then, from what the doctors were reporting, Patient Zero had been incoherent, maniacal, and completely unresponsive to any form of communication. He had bitten over thirteen of the hospital personnel sent to handle him, and from what Ana had gathered, over ten of them were beginning to exhibit the symptoms of a serious illness. The only way they were able to study him was by pumping him full of tranquilizer, and in amounts that should have killed any normal human.

_What's wrong with him?_ She thought blankly, not for the first time, as she headed towards the quarantine room. _Why is he attacking everyone that comes near him? And the look in his eyes... _

She stopped when she came to the biohazard tape.

"Ana?" Dr. Ashford was hurrying towards her from the opposite end of the hallway, eyes bloodshot and tired behind his wire-framed glasses. The rosary around his neck bounced with his uneven gait, slapping against his stark white coat.

"Yes, Dr. Ashford?" Ana asked quietly. A hoarse gurgle came from the room down the hall, the one criss-crossed with glaring yellow tape and hanging biohazard posters, followed by a sharp exclamation.

"I need your help," he said gravely, falling into step beside her. "Patient Zero is showing no signs of improvement. Every treatment we've attempted on him thus far has proven ineffective. Truth be told, we're not even sure exactly what's wrong with him."

"Have you been in touch with Dr. Wong?" she inquired, as they stepped over the threshold and into the room.

"Yes," Ashford replied distractedly, seemingly forgetting what they were talking about. "Wong? Yes. He isn't sure what this is, and as for the..." he trailed off, frowning as he took in the sight before them.

Patient Zero was strapped tightly to a bed, his hands and ankles tightly bound with surgical tubing. Three other men were standing over him, casting him dark glances. Two were doctors. One of them was looking distinctly pale, with deep purple bags under his eyes. His sleeve was rolled up and a hand clutched at the crook of his left elbow, where a deep set of teeth marks adorned the skin. The area around it had turned a deep, mottled purple.

The last man was dressed in sharp camouflaged army fatigues. She briefly took in his salt and pepper hair, the cool grey eyes. Then her attention was drawn to the wickedly gleaming assault rifle that was clutched in his hands.

"What's going on in here?" Ashford asked slowly.

"He can't be controlled," the bitten doctor grunted, and Ana detected a rasp of pain and—something else—in his voice. _Anger? Rage?_ He pressed tighter against his wound. "No treatments are working. He's bitten me, Harry, Ron, Colin. Six other patients before he could restrain him when he first succumbed to the symptoms. Then three residents."

"We're aware that you and Rosenberg were running the show before," the second doctor said, eyes flashing back and forth between his bitten friend. "Harry's been sent home due to sickness. He couldn't concentrate in his surgeries. And Colin lost his goddamn _finger._ Patient Zero bit it right the fuck off."

"I've seen the X-rays; I ordered them myself," Ashford said, his normally timid tone taking on a harder edge. "And who exactly are you?" he looked toward the army soldier.

"Colonel Garrett Hunt," the man replied. Ana shivered at his voice; it was smooth and level and as cold as his eyes. She instantly disliked him. "Civil Emergency and Defense Agency."

"And might I ask what you're doing here?" Ashford replied stiffly.

"This party's over, doc," Colonel Hunt replied dismissively. "This thing here—" he jabbed roughly at Patient Zero with the barrel of his rifle, sending the bound man into savage hysterics—"is no more human than a goddamned dog. Look at him." Five pairs of eyes turned to the struggling man, his eyes red and bloodshot, teeth gnashing, yellowed saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth. "He's sick. Infected."

"Infected with what?" Ana said in a small voice. The Colonel shot her a condescending look.

"How the hell should I know? You're the goddamned doctors here; you tell me what he has." He glared at the writhing form with thinly veiled disgust. "It's like he's got fucking rabies or something."

"His case is unlike any we've ever seen before," Ashford said sharply before she could respond. "But I wasn't aware that the dealings of a simple hospital were of any concern to the government."

"Thirteen bites," the Colonel said coldly. "Thirteen bites were given to others by this... Patient Zero, did you call him? No matter. And it seems to me that every victim is beginning to display the same symptoms as he is. And before he regressed to this state, how many other patients was he in contact with?"

Ashford did not reply. The Colonel looked to Ana, eyes roving over her body. She shivered, unconsciously crossing her arms over her breasts. "What about you, blondie? What was the procedure before you put him in quarantine?"

She looked to Dr. Ashford, but he was staring fixatedly at the wall. "We... he was in the general population, we didn't see any reason to—"

"Exactly," Colonel Hunt cut in. "If he so much as sneezed during that time, who's to say how many other patients caught what this fucker has?" He raised the rifle slightly. "I'm putting him down before this escalates into a national health hazard."

"You can't do that!" Ashford gasped, aghast. "He's a human being."

"Is that so?" Hunt said coldly. He jerked a shoulder at the bitten doctor. "And humans go around biting and maiming others, do they?"

"That – that may be true, Colonel, but we're all human beings in the end!" Ashford exclaimed. "Come to your senses."

"Oh, no problem there," Hunt said expressionlessly. "Stand back." He raised the rifle.

"No!" Ashford cried out. "This is not God's will!"

"I don't believe in God," Hunt said flatly. "I believe in facts. And the fact is, this man is infected with _something_, and unless I take action to stop it, a whole lot more people are going to get hurt." He switched the safety off with a loud snap. "Stand _back_, doctor."

"You can't do this!" Ashford begged. "It's not right!"

Ana backed away, eyes wide, heart hammering. Hunt's face could have been carved from stone. He raised the rifle.

"No!"

Ashford threw himself at the Colonel, broadsiding him. The CEDA officer grunted, the barrel of his gun knocked upward as it flashed. A sharp spray of gunfire roared in Ana's ears, obliterating the lighted ceiling fan above them. The room was shrouded in darkness.

"Jesus!"

Hunt struggled to throw Ashford off, who had wrapped his arms around the man in a bear hug. Rifle fire danced across the room, punching a series of holes in the X-rays of four-fingered hands that adorned the walls. One of the bullets shattered the surgical tubing near Patient Zero's right hand, and it burst free of the restraint.

Ana backed away, screaming. "Stop! Stop it!"

One of the doctors slammed into Ana as he went for Ashford; she stumbled and fell towards the centre of the room, hands outstretched to break her fall. They landed on something cold and thrashing. She heard a deep snarl. Two dark, glaring eyes shone red at her from the darkness. A cold hand seized her face and wrenched it down.

Ana screamed, then felt the teeth on her throat.

She saw spots and felt warm blood drench the side of her neck. Pressure built under her jaw. She wavered and fell forward, felt another hand scrabbling at her chest, fisting in her nurse's uniform. Sharp, yellowed nails seized the buttons on her front and pulled. She barely heard them ricochet into the darkness over the snarling, Hunt's cursing, Ashford's crying.

And her screaming.

The hand at her throat tightened, and another grabbed her breast. The pressure at her throat vanished; moments later she felt a deep, searing pain over her right nipple. Flesh ripped and she almost passed out, crying and screaming in the dark as blood ran down her pale chest and stained her uniform crimson. The hands released her and she fell away, blood gushing. She saw Ashford's eyes in the dark and she wordlessly reached out, fingers bloody and trembling. Her lips moved, but she couldn't utter words. She mouthed soundlessly:

_Help... me..._

With a look of horror and revulsion on his face, Ashford turned and ran.

The sounds of screaming grew sluggish and distant.

Ana fell next to the bed, eyes glazing, vision fading. She dimly registered a pair of feet leaping over her body; running full tilt at the door. She heard more screams in the distance, ever fainter, as she lost consciousness.

Two minutes later, she stood.

x x x x

_Entry 42_

_There have been radio reports coming in from Fairfield for almost five days, I think. The police made a statement about a massive amount of strange phone calls coming in, people saying that their neighbours were running around like madmen outside. Yelling, breaking things. Attacking anyone around them. The radio said something about the military blockading the entire area. No-one's being allowed in, or out. I heard CEDA even has a hand in all this. They're guarding the road exits and all planes going out of Fairfield have been grounded. And the news report last night showed cell phone imaging sent in from Highway 17 – buildings were on fire, and you could see the plumes of smoke from the skyscrapers from afar. I don't know what's going on, but I hope the military fixes it soon._

_Entry 45  
Saw another news report tonight. This time some amateur photojournalist showed censored videotape footage from a CEDA helicopter of the military moving into Fairfield. I've never seen so many troops moving at once except in movies. According to CNN, police transmissions have been coming in more frequently from that area, an insane amount. Panicky, and disoriented. Nobody knows what's going on, but Chelsie's aunt lives over there, and her dad is going crazy from worry. I called her last night, but her line was busy. Guess she was on with Nick all night. I'll try calling Chelsie again tonight to ask her about it. I hope she's not too scared._

_Entry 46  
Tried talking to Chelsie today in school. She didn't seem too eager to talk to me, and she's going to the movies with Nick tonight. Whatever. I'm going to go running. I don't want to think about anything right now._

_Entry 47  
News said there's been radio silence in Fairfield since yesterday evening. They just stopped broadcasting, like that. News choppers have been showing footage of the city from the air, and it looks... something's not right. It's almost like there's a citywide riot going on. Crowds of people running in the streets, fighting, destroying. The riot police are out on the streets, but the footage didn't look good. You could see cars choking the streets, and massive roadblocks all across the highways every city exit. Everyone in school's talking about it. The Fairfield Crisis. Kinda catchy. I think I'll go call Greg – maybe he heard something on CNN on his way to school. Whatever the situation is, it's spreading. And it's spreading fast._

_Entry 48  
This was on television last night – they found a drifter about ten miles northeast of Fairfield. Our direction. The guy was screaming nonsense, yelling and snarling. He couldn't speak – just angry, guttural shrieks. Flailing his arms, vomiting blood. He reached for anyone who came close. They tried sedatives, but even six times a lethal dose did nothing. Before the report ended, they said they had to chain him down. And they found others too – coming from the rural areas. I'm freaked out now myself. Rumours are spreading that CEDA is coming to Riverside._

_Entry 53  
The army's here. They arrived yesterday afternoon. I can't believe all this shit just fell and landed on our doorstep. Who would have thought this thing could have spread so fast? CEDA's set up wire fences and barricades across the city's major "choke points," according to an article in the Riverside Daily. What the fuck's that supposed to mean? They've been taking in people who have been coming from the countryside. Survivors, they say, from whatever is causing the riots. They're airlifting people out, or at least that's what they told us. So far, the main part of the town is being kept completely separate from the barricades. They keep telling us to go about our business, and that everything's under control. But rumours are everywhere, and we keep hearing the whispers. Whispers that say all of Fairfield is gone. Completely wiped out. _

_Something's wrong._

_I just don't know what it is. _

_x x x x_

"Jon, wake up!"

He felt the bed vibrating under his body, bouncing up and down as something heavy collided with it again and again. He grunted, kicking out sleepily. He hit something soft and a split second later a heavy body crashed down onto his own.

"Oof!" He had been going for a colourful curse word, but as the breath was crushed from his lungs, all he could manage was an inarticulate grunt of surprise. "Whassamatter?"

"You're going to be late again, boy wonder," a teasing female voice said. "Better get up."

He rolled over, ignoring her.

"Mom's making pancakes."

He opened one eye. "Blueberry?"

"Of course," she laughed.

He grinned sleepily. "Well played. Alright, I'm up." She snuggled up against him and he groaned and shoved her sideways off the bed. "Hey!" Dark, tousled brunette locks surfaced next to his face. She frowned prettily. "What was that for?"

"You can't do that," he said idly, sitting up in bed and reaching up to move his wavy dark hair out of his eyes. "You always try to wake me up and then make me go back to sleep."

"Then maybe you should learn to get up earlier and avoid all this," she said, batting at his hand.

He reached out and flicked her nose. "Get out of my room, kiddo."

"_Don't_ do that," she hissed, looking for a brief moment not like an innocent, playful tenth grader, but like a seething Amazonian warrior. He laughed, reaching out again, but she ducked under his hand and sprinted out the room. _"Mom!"_

Jonathan sat up and glanced sideways at the radio alarm clock that was resting on his dresser. Large, bold red letters were stamped across the display

7:59 a.m.

The alarm blared to life as soon as the hour turned.

"_...believed to be a mutated strain of the rabies virus. Officials have urged citizens to remain and obey instructions set forth by public health centres. While the possibility of a terrorist threat has not been ruled out, government officials have stated that such an origin is unlikely—"_

He reached out and shut off the radio before staggering, bleary-eyed, towards the bathroom, wiping sleep from his eyes. His normally flat black hair stuck up around his head like a bizarre halo.

He showered, dressed in his daily wear—dark-washed jeans and a dark blue t-shirt— and bounded downstairs towards the kitchen.

When he entered the room the kitchen was being flooded with the sound of the Fab Four— Abbey Road, to be precise. His mother was washing dishes in the sink basin and singing along to "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" while his father attempted to simultaneously drink coffee while carrying on a heated conversation on the phone. Maddie was sitting at the table, a stack of blueberry pancakes heaped before her and a newspaper unfurled in her hand. She gave him a mock glare, and he winked at her. The corner of her mouth lifted reluctantly.

"Morning, good fellows," Jon said, as he sat down at the table and pulled a platter of pancakes towards himself. His father gave him a distracted salute with his mug and then continued ranting. His mother looked over her shoulder at him. "You overslept again, mister."

"I'm a growing boy, and all that," he yawned, dousing the pancakes in maple syrup and heaping strawberries on top from a nearby bowl. His sister reached over with her fork and stole a strawberry from the top of the mound, and he stuck out his tongue at her.

"If that's all, then. All right. Thanks." His father hung up and looked down at the phone, a slight frown on his face. "That was Coleson from the Municipal Courts. The military's ordered them shut down for today, so I don't have to go in for work."

"Score one, big man," Jon held out his hand. "Mad props."

"Good one," his father replied, standing up and walking past him. "I don't like this. Everything in town has been tense ever since the army arrived here."

"They say it's for our own protection," his mother spoke from the sink.

"Then why won't they tell us what's going on?" He sighed and ran a hand through his hair in a gesture much like that of his son. "All these damn questions."

"Language, Thomas," his mother warned. His father smirked. "Sorry, honey."

"Anything good in there, kiddo?" Jon asked. Maddie lowered the paper, glancing at him through her dark hair before vanishing behind the paper again. "There's news, but I wouldn't call it good. Looks like they found more of those weird cannibal things near the turnpike."

"Maddie!" Jon's mother said sharply. "I don't want you reading those terrible things. It's bad enough that so many incidents have popped up and people been attacked without you being exposed to that violence."

"I'm not a kid anymore, Mom," his sister said indignantly. "I wish you'd stop treating me like a child." The radio changed songs.

"She's got a point, Lydia," his father's voice piped up from behind the fridge as he bent inside. "She's not our baby anymore. Besides, I want her—and you too, Jonathan—" his stern face suddenly peered at him from behind the fridge door, "—to be extra careful and come home right after school. It's dangerous now, with all these military types barricading the entire town."

"If you insist," Jon sighed dramatically. "And don't worry about Maddie, Mom. She's half-smart sometimes. She'll be fine." His sister smiled at him, her green eyes sparkling, as their parents engaged in an argument about the recent development and Maddie's exposure to it. Jon shrugged and finished his pancakes. He was just grabbing his knapsack when a car horn blared from outside. "That's Greg. I've got to go, guys." He grabbed his keys and tucked them into his pockets.

"Don't forget, you said you'd quiz me for Canadian History when you come home," Maddie said.

"I know." He went for the door.

"You promised!" she called after him. He turned and grinned. "I know. See you later, kiddo."

"Love you," his father called after him, as Jon's hand closed over the doorknob. He didn't know it then, but it would be the last time he ever heard it.

"Love you too, Dad."

The door closed.

Jon walked across the lawn in the bright sunlight, towards the grey Pontiac Vibe idling at the edge of the curb before his house. "Took you long enough," Greg said, grinning at Jon as he tossed his knapsack into the front seat and climbed in after it. "But we know you need your beauty sleep."

"Shut up, loser," Jon replied, smirking. "Now quick, step on it, or I'll be late for World History."

"Sure thing, Daddy-O," Greg replied, and he put his foot on the pedal and pulled into the street. Jon shook his head, bemused. Gregory Palmer, eighteen years old, a senior in his final year at Riverside High, just like himself... and as insufferable as always.

"You hear anything else about the Fairfield thing?" Jon asked as Greg pulled onto Woodhaven Boulevard. The sun shone brightly overhead, a blazing ring in a haze of blue and white. To Jon's left, a girl looking to be in her early twenties rollerbladed past, with a golden Labrador running alongside her, tongue dangling from one side of its happy grin.

Greg shook his head. "Nothing so far. Last I heard was they were putting the people they found in the suburbs into quarantine."

"So check the radio," Jon suggested, twisting the knob; there was a sharp burst of static and then a sharp male voice came out of the speakers.

"...bizarre reports from military staff detail victims breaking out into a violent, cannibalistic rage..."

Jon sighed. "Same as last night."

They swerved out of the subdivisions onto Main Street. Cars rumbled and honked down the road, big yellow buses lumbered past, and pedestrians strolled to and fro, talking, rushing, commuting. The time melted away as they drove onward, through the hum of early morning traffic, until they swerved into the parking lot of Riverside High.

Jon opened his door and stepped out, glancing towards the front of the school, where students milled to and fro, laughing and talking. A football was being tossed around by several sophomores outside the main doors.

Jon pulled his knapsack onto his back as Greg got out of the car, shutting his door behind him. "And with time to spare."

"Well, you were bound to get lucky sometime," Jon smirked. Then he looked over Greg's shoulder and the grin slid right off his face.

Nick's silver Beemer rolled past the Pontiac and slid into a parking spot a few cars from them. Greg looked over, immediately taking in Jon's darkened expression. "Fuck, you've got it bad, man."

He grunted.

The driver's door opened and Nick Canfield stepped out. Tall, light brown hair, deep hazel eyes. Riverside High's very own all-American poster boy. He was also coincidentally the son of the richest man in town.

Jon watched dully as Chelsie Stevens got out of the passenger seat, her serene face lit up with laughter. Her head swivelled and her mahogany hair danced in the sun. Then her gaze caught his and her smile wavered, just a fraction. He felt his heart lower as he realized she was still afraid of him. Not _afraid_, per se, that was too strong a word. But uncomfortable? Awkward? Those were right on money.

"Let's go," he said quickly, turning to walk away, but Nick's voice rang out after him.

"Jon! What's up, man?" He strode over, flashing a genuinely warm smile. Chelsie hesitated, then followed a split second later. Jon sighed inwardly. He didn't know what was worse—the fact that he felt so annoyed by Nick, or the fact that Nick didn't even have a clue about it. They were even friends before he had started dating Chelsie. Not best friends, but close. Jon had fallen out of touch with him since, but Nick didn't have any idea why.

_Because of that night..._

He remembered Chelsie's soft breathing, the arch of her back. He brutally crushed the memory down.

"What's up?" he asked guardedly as they approached.

Chelsie shot him a strained smile. "Not much. I was up late last night—"

His stomach twisted.

"—finishing Mr. Cooper's philosophy assignment."

He was immediately disgusted with himself. _What the fuck is my problem?_

"Bit late, aren't you, Cricket?" Greg smirked, using her nickname from sixth grade when she had accidentally nailed their gym teacher in the groin with a cricket bat by the baseball diamond. Chelsie giggled and swatted his shoulder. "Get off my back. I had other stuff to do."

Jon watched them with a detached sense of longing. He hated the fact that he was actually jealous, actually felt sick at the thought that it was Greg who was able to make her laugh, when he, her best friend since grade school and neighbour until three years ago, could not. But Greg had plenty of girlfriends, and Chelsie had never shown any interest in him.

He was saved from his thoughts as Justin, Chelsie's brother, came ambling over from the front gates, dirty-blonde hair glinting in the sun. "Yo, losers."

"Top of the morning to you as well," Jon gave an exaggerated bow. "Might I take your hat, good sir?" Chelsie's mouth twitched and she bit her lip quickly. Justin noticed her expression and grinned evilly.

"Big sister!" he exclaimed, as though he had just noticed her. "I'm quite surprised to see you here. As I recall, you overslept this morning, did you not?"

"Justin, shut up," she hissed, glancing at Jon furtively beneath her curtain of hair.

"What?" he shrugged easily. "I'm just saying, all those extra-curriculars you were up to must have tired you out. Also, try to keep it down next time; it was frickin' annoying. Or at least have the common decency to turn your music up or something. Shit, we share a wall, woman."

Chelsie looked away, her cheeks pink and burning. Nick was grinning sheepishly, looking slightly disconcerted, but not as embarrassed as Jon would have been in the same situation. He felt a sour taste in his mouth.

"Whatever. We're going to get to class." She grabbed Nick's arm and tugged him away. "See you later, Greg. Jon." Nick nodded after them. "Later, guys!"

"At ease, Cricket," Greg called after them. The pair joined a wave of kids heading into the front gates before Greg turned to Justin and socked his arm, hard. "What the hell was that for, douchebag?"

"What the fuck?" Justin gasped, sounding highly affronted. He rubbed his muscled shoulder. "Give me a break. They've been going for five months, man. He's gonna have to get used to it some time."

"I'm standing right here," Jon said irritably.

Justin shook his head pityingly, his face half-hidden under the brim of his Midnight Riders hat. "Dude, just forget her. My sister lives in her own little world. I know you guys had something special in the past. I've been trying to get the details out of her for ages, but she just won't crack. Anyways," he shook his head slightly, as though getting back on track. "Just let it go."

"He's got a point," Greg said as they made their way across the parking lot. "She's known you for how long, Jon? Since you were kids?"

"Eleven years."

"Yeah. But she wouldn't go with you. But Nick, she only knew him for about two months before they started dating."

They joined the flow of high school students making their way through the front doors. "You have a point?"

"You already know it," Greg said, slapping his shoulder. Jon sighed, because they knew each other too well.

They went past the entrance towards A Hallway. A group of pretty girls lounging at their lockers giggled slightly as Greg passed through, casting appreciative glances their way. Jon shook his head. Girls went nuts over Greg; that was just the way it was. With his dark chestnut skin, powerful physique born from constant soccer practice, and his easygoing, nonchalant nature, he attracted girls like moths to a flame. Teachers loved him, guys wanted to be him... at the height of the popularity food chain, everyone and everything wanted a bite of Gregory Palmer.

Jon did not resent his friend for this; on the contrary, he found all the hubbub rather amusing. While Greg was as laid back as they came, preferring to breeze his way through school while making it big as Riverside High's star soccer player, Jon was more academically oriented and tended to overanalyze things. While polar opposites in personality, Jon and Greg had been best friends since first grade, and nothing would change that.

Justin, on the other hand, was Maddie's age and a sophomore. He'd already had his share of girlfriends, due to his amiable grin and strong arms from working down at Ted's auto repair shop. He paused at the entrance to his classroom and jerked his head. "I'm this way. See you guys at lunch."

"Peace," Greg called at his retreating back.

"Hey, Greg! Jon!" Jon turned to see Katie White, a girl in his philosophy class, wading towards them through the sea of students. With her bright blond hair that lit up the hallway, Katie could always be seen from a mile away, with her radiant smile and perfect teeth. A seasoned tennis star and incredible flute player, Katie was lusted after by most boys, but Jon knew she harboured a spark for Greg._ Surprise_!

"Hey Kat," Greg said easily, smiling at her and glancing appreciatively at her as she approached; Katie was dressed all in white: a short, flowy skirt coupled with a rather snug tennis shirt. Katie tucked her hair behind her ear and beamed back at him. "How's it going, guys?"

"Hellish," Jon said with an exaggerated grimace. "As you can see, a deeply virulent pathogen known as Gregory Palmer has struck the fair town of Riverside."

"Ouch," Katie grinned. "Are you really gonna take that, Greg?"

"Silence, minion," Greg laughed, shoving Jon in the shoulder; Jon collided with a locker and made a face. "Just kidding." Greg turned to Katie. "Shouldn't you be in Music now, Kitty Kat?" he immediately dodged sideways, avoiding the punch she aimed at his face. "I told you to stop calling me that!" she cried playfully, throwing more punches his way.

"Now, now," Greg chuckled, catching her fists in midair. "It comes from love, you know that."

"Gross," Jon said idly, heading off down the hall. "I'll leave you two lovebirds at it. I've got World History in five minutes."

"One, actually," Katie giggled, twisting her body to glance at her watch, suspended above her head as Greg held her wrists. Jon gaped. "_One?_ Shit! I'm out of here. See you later!" He sprinted off, barely registering the chorused "bye" that echoed behind him.

_Got to get to the third floor in sixty seconds, kill me now..._

He burst into the classroom as the bell rang, breathing a sigh of relief. His teacher, Mr. Kramer, looked at him bemusedly. "Cutting it rather close, Mr. Brooks."

"Sorry, sir," Jon gasped. "Won't happen again." It wouldn't.

"Oh, I've no doubt of it," his teacher said wryly. "Grab a seat."

Jon walked towards the back of the class, through the rows of desks filled with chattering students. Chelsie was sitting by the window, twirling a strand of chocolate hair around her finger as she bit her lip, studying a textbook on her desk. He swallowed hard, tearing his gaze away. Before he realized what he was doing, he had dropped into a seat next to her.

"Hey," he said cautiously.

She started, looking up in surprise. "Oh... hey," she said quietly, casting her eyes downward.

"Look," he started haltingly, as the class began taking out their notes. Jon wasn't even sure why he was talking. He hadn't spoken to Chelsie for more than two minutes at a time for over three weeks. "I, uh... Chelsie, do you think we could talk?"

"Not now," she said flatly. "We have class."

"Later, then," he insisted.

"I don't think—"

He cut her off. "We're best friends, Chelsie. We've been friends since second grade. I don't just want to let that go. Do you?"

For the first time in a long time, she looked at him without flinching.

"Look, I don't like what's happened with us," he muttered. "I... you know how I hate change and stuff. And—lately, we've been drifting. A lot. We hardly talk anymore. Fuck, even Greg sees you more than me, and he's got soccer practice almost every day."

She still had that pinched, saddened expression and it made him feel sick. She shrugged evasively. "It's not like you ever want to hang out with us, Jon. How many times have I asked you to come out with Nick and I?"

He snorted. "Right. So I can be your third wheel?"

"Fuck you, Jon," she spat at him, cheeks flushed with anger. "Why can't you just let it go? What happened before is never going to happen again, and it's time you get used to it. Get _over _it."

"Have you?" he said simply.

Her mouth dropped open in surprise and for a moment she looked vulnerable and scared. "Jon—"

"Settle down," Mr. Kramer said from the front of the room. He swallowed and looked away from Chelsie as the teacher turned and began scrawling with chalk upon the blackboard. "We're continuing where we left off on Wednesday. Hitler's foreign policy, and we'll touch base on his domestic policy if we have time."

Time seemed to slowly melt away as Jon scribbled into his notebook. Next to him, Chelsie looked pensively from the board and to him and back again. He ignored her and dully concentrated on his notes.

"Hey!" someone in the front row suddenly piped up. "Outside! Check it out!"

"What is it, Andrew?" Mr. Kramer asked, turning around.

"Car crash! Near the edge of the subdivision!"

There was a cacophony of scraping chairs and students rushed towards the windows, pressing their faces against the glass panes. Jon bolted to his feet, shoving his chair backward as he pushed into the students grouped around the four windows.

"What's going on?" Chelsie asked, shooting him a worried look as she pushed in next to him, their earlier argument forgotten.

"I'm not sure," Jon said, peering out across the grassy field at the back of the school. A large plume of dark smoke was rising from the street at the entrance to the subdivisions. As hushed and excited voices flowed around him, Jon stared at the wreckage, suddenly flinching as another bright ball of red and gold burst to life a little further down the same street.

"What the hell was that?"

"Why did he swerve into the other lane?"

"Did you see that? There are people over there..."

"Look! He's getting out of his car!"

"But... he doesn't look right, what's he doing? He looks fucked up –"

"Holy shit! He tackled that guy! Did you see that? He's beating the shit out of him!"

Jon gaped in astonishment at the distant flurry of shapes. People running, darting to and fro. A mangled wreck of metal that might have passed for a car at one point. Smoke, and fire. A window exploded in one of the houses and human shapes flooded from the broken glass.

"Jon?" Chelsie whispered, her eyes fearful as she gazed outside. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," he said quietly.

"All right, settle down," Mr. Kramer said, trying in vain to calm the buzzing classroom. "Everybody just relax, and we'll figure out what's –" suddenly, a hand clamped down on Jon's arm, and he jerked sharply to look at Ben Cosine, who was pointing with the other hand out the window.

"The trees!" he shouted. "Look at the trees!"

Thirty pairs of eyes swivelled to fix themselves on the tree line, the brink of the forest leading to the rural areas on the edges of Riverside. Through the smoke and haze, shapes were emerging from the wooded pines – dark and murky, blurred by the distance. As the figures materialized out of the mist, Jon realized they were humans – but they didn't look right. They were covered with dirt, and some had horrible red stains coating their clothes. Blood. Men and women, rushing out of the forest. Some stumbled aimlessly about, twitching erratically. Others tripped and fell to the dirt and burst into spasms; others fell only to get back up again. But most of the crowd was running full tilt across the grassy field, heading straight for Riverside High.

"What the hell?" Jon whispered, eyes fixed on the terrifying sight before him. "What's going on?"

"Oh, my God," Chelsie gasped, her hand clutching at Jon's bare arm tightly, her nails digging in sharply. "Their faces. Look at their faces."

He looked.

Their skin was pale, almost ashen in colour, as though the natural pigment of their skin had been drained and nothing was left but grey dust. Their eyes were sunken, with huge purple bags beneath their lids, streaked with red. Yellowed, decaying teeth were displayed atop blackened gums, and wordless snarls flowed from their lips, which were purple and stained with blood. Their eyes glowed with hatred and murderous intent as the massive crowd ran towards the school.

Jon tore away from the window and out into the hall, and Kramer did nothing to stop him. Chelsie followed close behind. All up and down the corridor, doors were bursting open and students were flooding the halls, talking hurriedly, their voices flowing over each other. Teachers appeared in the doorways, trying to calm everyone down. Jon joined the bustling throng of students, all of them pushing towards the stairwell at the end of the hall. Someone knocked into his side; Jon didn't see, or care, who it was. His hand moved through the tangled mass of limbs, brushing against the side of someone's jeans and the softer pliancy of a passing girl's chest, until he found Chelsie's hand.

"Don't let go of me," he shouted over the noise.

She didn't reply, but her hand tightened in his own, holding his fingers closely.

Jon moved with the crowd down the stairs, out of the stairwell and past the cafeteria, which was full of a mob of students, towards the atrium, tugging Chelsie along with him. A contingent of people had already assembled there, students and teachers alike. Jon pushed his way through the crowd as students staggered out of classrooms and down the halls. Random drifts of conversation filled his ears as he passed through.

"Did you see them? They're all around the building—"

"They're completely covering the field, I saw it, it was like a sea of them—"

"They look like hell, they're all bloodied and torn—"

"Did you see the town? There's smoke to the south. Something exploded."

"Someone crashed on Main Street. I saw it—"

"Those people are all coming towards the school..."

"What are they?"

Jon stood under the massive glass dome ceiling of the atrium. He turned to Chelsie, whose chocolate coloured eyes were wide with fear. "Whatever happens," he told her urgently, "stay with me. I'll look after you." She nodded, and squeezed his hand tighter.

From behind them, there was a loud slam, followed by a harsh shout. Jonathan turned.

Someone stood in of the doorways leading to the outside of the high school. Through the small rectangular pane of glass, Jon could see two bright red eyes, glowing like coals in the sunlight. The eyes were filled with rage, their irises bulging and pupils dilated. Fresh blood dripped from the darkened gums and crooked teeth. Spurts of it flecked against the doorway as the person breathed erratically.

"Holy—"

The person raised its hands and hammered them against the door, screaming and shrieking like a banshee; a split second later the door burst off its hinges and a tide of the sick people burst through, snarling like a pack of wolves. Screams erupted and kids began to stampede in all directions as the deranged people surged forward.

Jon was barely aware of Chelsie's panicked scream as a hand reached out from the midst of the throng and, groping wildly, seized a passing student. With a jerk, the boy pulled away, only to be grabbed by another pair of arms. The deranged man thrust the kid backwards against a row of lockers, and began slamming his fists into the kid's face, ignoring the horrified yells of pain and terror. Fingers hooked into claws, the man savaged and ripped away at the boy, until his face was unrecognizable, and he slumped to the floor in a spreading cloud of blood.

_Oh my God..._

Jon couldn't move, standing stock still, in a daze as students sprinted past him on either side. All around him, the pale, sick looking people were clutching at students that were too close, and beating them senseless. One large, muscular looking man, his red eyes blazing with rage, grabbed a passing girl's face with both hands, pressing his large thumbs into her eye sockets. The girl screamed, a high-pitched, terrified scream that to spiral even higher as the man's thumbs dug deeper into her eyes, until they were buried up to the base of his palm. The girl's hands waved, and blood poured in torrents down her face, on either side of her cheeks. The man then stuck his face into the crook of her neck, and ripped a chunk of skin away with broken teeth; the girl's agonized screams wavered and gurgled away into nothing as her body was dropped ruthlessly to the floor.

Jon stumbled backward as one of the people bit into a teacher's face, tearing a great chunk of her cheek off, and more screams lit the early morning air. Beside him, Chelsie was sobbing and screaming hysterically, her hand tugging on his own numb fingers, as one of the sick people, a thin, emaciated looking woman with dark, unkempt hair, glared directly at him from her sunken, purple eye sockets.

_No –_

With a shriek the woman bounded forward, moving with surprising speed, and swiped at Jon's ribs; he fell backward against a row of lockers, the padlock digging through his shirt and tearing a line into the flesh of his back. He cried out in pain, collapsing onto the floor as the woman began kicking at him, stomping away at his chest.

Chelsie's hand slipped away.

Snapping out of his terror-induced paralysis, Jon grabbed her foot as it came down and jerked sharply, causing the woman to slip and fall backwards. The top of her head dashed against the edge of a water fountain, and blood sprayed from the wound, leaving streaks on the wall as the woman collapsed, unmoving.

Jon staggered to his feet and stared in abject shock at the motionless woman, blood streaming from the dent in her skull. She was either dead or unconscious. He didn't wait to see which one.

He took off down the hall, his heart beating painfully fast. Chelsie was nowhere to be seen. Fear welled inside him like water in a dam, threatening to overcome him. Shock and revulsion over what he had just done threatened to make him throw up. _Dwell on that later. Not now. No time. Got to find Chelsie, and get out. Get out. Get out._

Students were running along the halls in a panic induced frenzy. With all the chaos, Jon could hardly see who was sick and who wasn't. To his left, a boy in a red football jersey was yanked into a classroom by a large man in a construction worker's vest. The man bit down into the boy's throat, eyes savage. Blood sprayed like rain.

Jon ran onward, past the open doors of classrooms, away from the atrium and the screams, the loud smashing of glass. In one room, a crowd of the sick people were hunched over in a group, beating away at a writhing, screaming shape on the floor. In another, the windows were broken, and bloody hands were reaching through the jagged glass in a thick mass.

Jon's breath came painfully fast. The terrified shouts echoed bitterly in his ears. He shouldered past three Goth kids at the entrance to C Hallway, when a hand grabbed his shoulder roughly and spun him around.

Though pain flared roughly in his wrenched shoulder, Jon barely registered it as he stared at the thing before him. It was the boy in the red football jersey, his throat torn and ragged, strips of flesh completely ripped away. Blood coursed down his throat, staining the jersey. But that wasn't all. Somehow, the boy was standing – and his face was shockingly pale, an ashy grey. Cold, red eyes bored at him from above a bloody, dark mouth. Hate flowed from every pore.

_This can't be happening. This is impossible. I saw him die. I _watched_ him die._

The boy reached out and grabbed Jon's throat.

Jon drove a fist into the boy's ribs, hearing a sharp _crack_ split the air. The boy didn't even flinch, but instead snarled and began squeezing the air from his lungs. Jon sputtered, slamming his other hand into the broken ribs. The cold, steely grip did not falter in the least.

"Fucker..." Jon rasped, and he jerked his head forward and, feeling repulsed, slammed the top of his head into the kid's bloody face. The football jersey kid staggered back and collapsed on the floor, growling. Ignoring the dull pain – and sticky blood – at the crown of his head, Jon turned tail and ran.

_Where are you? Fuck, Chelsie, where are you?_

He turned a corner and suddenly she was there. Standing stock still in the centre of a hallway, the floor littered with corpses and blood smears. Three of the sick people came at her from the other end of the hall, shrieking with blood lust. Chelsie didn't move, but remained motionless, eyes empty and fixated on the horrible spectacle before her.

Jon looked frantically for a way to help her, and his eyes alighted on a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall. He drove his elbow into the glass pane, shattering it, and wrenched the red cylinder from the slot. He ran at Chelsie, praying that he'd reach her in time. "Duck! Chelsie, _duck_!"

She didn't. The clawed, greyish fingers were an inch from her jugular when Jon rammed the fire extinguisher into the man's face. He careened backward, blood gushing from the mangled lump that used to be his nose. A spurt of it landed directly over Chelsie's heart. Putting all his weight behind it, Jon swung the extinguisher like a club, hitting the next man directly in the side of the temple. There was a dull thud and he collapsed, motionless. With a quick jab, he hit the last woman in the stomach, and she doubled over, angry hollers bursting from her lips. Jon swung again, and the woman's life burst apart in a spray of red and white. The first man writhed on the floor, snarling up at him. Jon stomped on the man's throat, and he fell still, gurgling. He wanted to throw up. He didn't.

"Chelsie," he gasped, turning to her and grabbing her hand as he dropped the extinguisher with a clatter. "We've got to move, now." She didn't respond, but simply stared ahead with a haunted, blank expression. Jon shook her. "Chelsie!" he shouted. She turned to look at him. "Run, _now!_" Half-tugging, half running, he managed to get her feet moving, and they both took off down the hallway and into another stairwell, joining another crowd of students heading towards the back exit. Some were even running up the stairs. _What the hell are they doing?_ he thought frantically, as the crowd throbbed around him. _There's no hope in that direction._

He ran right into someone heading in the opposite direction and bounced back, startled. "Greg!" he shouted, feeling an intense swell of relief wash over him. His friend gaped in open-mouthed shock, before seizing him by the shoulder. "Jon! The back exit is blocked, they're all over the field!" Katie was next to him, eyes wide and fearful, but otherwise unhurt. Someone's blood had splattered in a vicious smear across the stomach of her tennis shirt.

Jon pointed. "Through the business hall. It's the fastest way to the main doors. Hurry!"

The foursome broke into a run, darting through groups of terrified students. A door burst open on their left and a sick person careened into the hallway, snarling. Greg punched it in the face and it fell backward. The crowd tugged Jon along as they moved through the business hall. The murderous people were everywhere, gushing through windows and doors like a virus. He gripped Chelsie's hand, and Katie held fast to Greg's arm. Further up ahead, at the end of the hall, several kids were bracing themselves against a door leading to the band hallway. Suddenly, the doors flew open as the sick people threw their weight against them. They swarmed over the fallen students like flies to carrion. Screams floated upward as the mob overwhelmed them, ripping and biting at clothes and hair and flesh. Blood flowed across the floor. When the horde moved past, the fallen students got sluggishly to their feet. Red eyes burned in sagging sockets. They were infected.

_The Fairfield Virus. It's here._

Greg shoved Jon roughly in another direction. "Quick. B Hallway."

They ran, bypassing snarling monsters and terrified students. Up ahead, a wave of students hit the main doors, throwing them open.

A crowd of students rampaged through, spreading out in panic and running out towards the streets. Jon was swept along in their wake, borne along by the panicked students. Kids, and even a couple teachers, bolted from several entrances. Some went straight for the parking lot and leaped into their vehicles, screeching away on hot tires, heading for home. Others ran out into the street, trying to reach the first house in sight. As Jon watched in horror, a young sophomore was struck by the hood of a moving Honda. It didn't slow down as the broken youth slammed into the pavement and was immediately set upon, screaming, by a group of infected.

As the crowds around the doors grew larger, infected began pouring from the school, striking out at all those within reach. More of them came from around the sides of the school, tackling students and bashing their faces into the cement. Jon chanced a look towards the field and saw a choking mass of them, sprinting towards the parking lot.

Greg pointed; his grey Pontiac was within sight. "Move it!" he yelled. He took off between rows of parked cars. Jon followed, breathing hard. All around them, smoke rose from ruined houses and buildings, darkening the morning sky. Horns honked everywhere. Infected ran from the field, behind houses, from the trees, and the surrounding neighbourhood. In the distance, something exploded. A bright ball of red mushroomed into the sky.

A snarl to his left drew his attention as a young girl, infected, swiped at Jon's face. He ducked the blow, shouldering the once-student aside. Up ahead, Greg fumbled with his keys, wrenching the car door open. Katie slid into the back, while Greg ducked into the driver's seat. Jon put on a burst of speed and tugged the passenger door open, leaping into the van. A group of several infected near a trashed Sedan saw him and ran towards the van.

Greg gunned the engine and prepared to pull away when Jon started. "Where's Chelsie? Where the fuck's Chelsie?!"

"Jon!" Katie screamed, pointing past Greg's head out over the dashboard. He looked.

Chelsie was on the hood of a beat-up Chevrolet, which was surrounded by four infected, swiping at her. She kicked valiantly, knocking one back, but another grabbed her leg and began pulling her off the roof of the car as she screamed for help.

Jon reached under the seat and groped for something, anything, to use as a weapon. His fingers grazed the cold steel of a lug wrench. Pulling it from beneath the seat, Jon unlocked his door and jumped out. "Hey!" he shouted. One of the infected whirled, eyes blazing, and Jon clubbed it in the head, knocking it to the ground. He moved forward, swinging the lug wrench like a baseball bat. One of the infected sprawled to the ground with a shattered kneecap, another with a broken collarbone. Jon ran to the last, which had just succeeded in pulling Chelsie from the car, and slammed the wrench down in an overhead blow. The back of the infected's head caved inwards, and it collapsed in a pool of blood.

Jon pulled his sobbing friend to her feet as the Pontiac pulled up alongside them. "Get in!" Greg shouted, and Jon obliged, pushing Chelsie towards the back door, which Katie yanked open for her. Chelsie slammed the door shut, and Greg hit the gas, roaring away in a screeching U-turn from the mass of cars. Several infected slammed against the doors, leaving smeared handprints of blood. Katie screamed and shrank back. The Pontiac straightened out and sped across parking lot as the infected swarmed the school.

"Are you okay?" Jon asked frantically, turning around in his seat to look at Chelsie; her cheeks were streaked with tears, and she was trembling, but looked unharmed. He felt for her hand, grabbed it, and squeezed it tightly between his own palms. Katie reached over, wrapped an arm around her friend. "You're safe now."

"Holy—!" Greg exclaimed, twisting the wheel to avoid a bloody woman with one of her eyes torn out; she roared at the van as it passed and began to give chase. Behind her, a sea of infected followed. Jon watched them disappear into the distance, as they left the high school behind.

"What happened back there?" Katie choked out, tears streaming down her cheeks. Jon just shook his head numbly, staring out the window at the ruined neighbourhood. Main Street was a murder zone. Burning wrecks that were once vehicles littered the middle of the street. Small children ran across the sidewalks, pursued by the hellish, violent infected. Cars swerved down the streets, fleeing the carnage behind; others passed in the opposite direction, headed for who knows where.

"Greg!" Jon shouted, as a Jeep barrelled directly towards them, driving in the wrong lane. Greg jerked the steering wheel sharply to the right, ramping the sidewalk with a sharp squeal of tires. The Jeep collided head on with a unlucky Mazda; there was a screech of metal, followed by a terrific explosion that shook the seat under them. Greg twitched the wheel and eased back onto the road.

"Jesus Christ..." he muttered, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ."

The van moved past an overturned car, its ruined hood gushing smoke. A man slowly crawled from the driver's window. Two infected spotted him from the sidewalk and rushed forwards as the van flew past. Jon turned away, sickened, as both the car and the infected disappeared as they turned a corner.

"Where do we go?" Chelsie croaked from the backseat, the first words she had spoken since he'd found her. "What do we do?"

Jon pointed at a street sign as they drove past. "Parkland Drive. Who lives closest?"

"I do," Katie said.

"Then let's head there," Jon replied quietly. "We can check the news and find out –"

"No, wait," Greg interrupted. "Brent lives closer. Just about five minutes away, over by Ocean Avenue."

"Who?" Katie asked.

"Brent Gordon. He goes to our school. Jon and I know him." Greg turned the wheel and pulled onto a side street, passing a group of infected running at a panicking jogger. One of them leaped at the van as it passed, latching onto the roof. Several seconds later, loud thumps broke the air as the infected began raining blows upon the roof of the van.

"Greg—"

"I see him," Greg grunted, slamming the brakes. The infected man was tossed from the roof, hitting the blood-stained asphalt before them. Greg floored the gas pedal, and with two loud thumps, the car jerked up and down as they moved over the body.

"What's going to happen to us?" Chelsie moaned from the backseat. Jon gritted his teeth as the van moved onward, though the flaming debris and torn cars, leaving the unmoving body very small, very lost, against the empty road.


	2. The Moment It Began

They had chosen a hardware store that night, one with a large plastic sign that hung slightly crooked over the open entrance. He hadn't originally wanted to stop, but the others had stressed the need to travel at night. Michael wasn't sure what the big deal was with the night flying. The things outside were clearly not nocturnal; they'd attack anything that moved, be it dusk or dawn or anything in between. He yawned tiredly and sat against the windowpane, watching the darkened street below. A light rain was falling against the windows, leaving silver tracks in the dusty grooves. For once, there were none of the shambling creatures wandering up and down the street, and for a brief moment, he could almost pretend everything was okay.

"Michael?"

He turned to see Zoey standing in the corner of the attic, one hand resting on the door jamb. "Can I come in?"

He wet his lips and nodded, shifting over to make space for her on top of the wooden crate he was sitting on. She walked over and sat down on a crate next to him, carefully removing the dual pistols from her belt and laying them out on another crate next to her. "Your watch is over, big guy. I'm here to relieve you."

He nodded again but didn't move, resting his head against the side of the windowpane. The cool glass felt good on his fevered skin. Zoey watched him with concerned eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he said, turning his gaze away from the street to look at her. He liked looking at Zoey. She was dreadfully cute in an Elizabeth Bennet sort of way, with her playful blue eyes and her ponytailed hair, curled slightly by the recent rainfall. She had removed her sopping red sweater, and beneath her wet T-shirt was plastered snugly to her chest. The pant legs of her soaked jeans were rolled past her bare feet and up to the shins. The overall effect was devastating.

She smiled at him and for some reason, even in the midst of his darkness and self-doubt, it wasn't hard to smile back. They sat comfortably, listening to the raindrops on the roof.

"Good thing we found this place, huh?" she said, looking around.

He nodded. The hardware store had been a lucky break, the one stroke of good fortune they had enjoyed since becoming stranded in Riverside. Just off the main road, it was the only shop around that wasn't either broken into or overrun. The roll-down metal gates had already been pulled down and had proven to be hardy enough to keep even them out, never mind the infected. The only reason they had managed to get inside was due to Louis' idea to boost Zoey onto the roof of a nearby shop so she could sneak in through a window. Now, they were currently hiding out in a storage attic above the store, complete with a small adjoining office that even had its own bathroom.

"Do you think any of them will find us in here?" he asked, rubbing his arm self-consciously.

Zoey shrugged. "Maybe. But even if they do, they can't get to us. We already cleaned the shop out." Michael remembered the snarling remains of the old hardware store owner, likely bitten before he had managed to lock down the place, frothing at the mouth and as rabid as a wild dog. Zoey had been the one to put him down.

He watched her as she leaned back on her elbows, staring out into the night as though lost in thought. He took in the nakedness of her pose, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He marvelled, not for the first time, at how her innocent outer appearance could house such an efficient, hardened fighter. But even so, she possessed a dark-eyed fierce vulnerability that made her seem as fragile as she was deadly.

Zoey turned her head and caught him looking, and he blushed and turned away. She hid her smile. Despite the fact that he had slowly become accustomed to being in their party, Michael was still awkward, still bumbling and shy around the others, and particularly around her. She wasn't sure if it was simply him, the way he dealt with things, or whether she was a girl—the only girl left from before.

"Hey?" her voice was hesitant and soft. When he turned to face her, her normally playful expression was mired with brevity. "What is it?" he murmured back, his voice just as low as hers.

"Do you think..." her hands smoothed at the creases in her jeans. "Do you think one day, things will just... go back to normal?"

He was silent. He stared out the window at the light fog on the wet streets and memories came, memories he didn't even know were real anymore, of a time and a life before: him and Jacob laughing and playing football with the others in the park, Holly calling him on the phone ("what are you guys up to?"), Ruth laughing and messing up his hair. Sarah and him studying biology together in the res study halls. Laughter. Smiles.

Gone.

"I don't know," he said.

They sat together in silence.

"Whatever happens," he reached out and, gathering his courage, lightly touched her leg. "I'm really glad I found you."

She looked down at his hand on her denim-clad thigh. A small smile grew on her face. "As I seem to recall, I found you, not the other way around."

He grinned and squeezed her knee. "A minor technicality." She laughed and squirmed away, crossing her legs to get them away from his hands. He chuckled lightly, leaning back against the windowpane as she narrowed her eyes at him playfully. Her hem of her nearly transparent wet shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing a bit of her creamy hip. He swallowed, his mind racing with possibilities. To distract himself, he looked up at her face. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot," she said, leaning back on her elbows again.

"Before all this started," he waved a hand vaguely around the room. "What were you doing? What was your life like?"

She watched him with curious eyes. "Why do you want to know?"

He shrugged honestly. "I don't know. It's just, I don't really know anything about you yet. I just met you guys. And..." he looked down and muttered the rest of his sentence into his chest. "I want to know you more."

She dipped her head and smiled at her knees. He wasn't like the others, that was for sure. Out of everyone she had encountered since the outbreak began—the cop, the journalist, the doctor, her boys—none of them had displayed the same humbleness, the eager naivety, the pure-hearted will to do good. He was so unlike them all.

_And that's why I can connect with him..._

"Do you remember the night we met?" she said softly. His head turned up and his dark eyes pierced into her. She didn't look away, and for a moment they were both breathless as they looked at each other and the rain sang softly on the shingles.

"I remember," he replied, his voice husky.

"The night before everything ended..." she looked down at her hands, clasped above her lap. "I stayed up late."

He didn't say anything, but instead waited for her to continue. She did, speaking in dulcet tones.

"My parents called me after midterms. They were furious with me because my grades were slipping. I never really liked studying, but my parents were always on my case about it in high school so that I could get into a good university. But, I don't know, I just didn't care about any of that. I mean, I wasn't aiming for fucking Harvard or Yale or anything. I just wanted..." she broke off and shook her head disbelievingly, laughing. "I just wanted to sit home and watch horror movies. Heh. I know I sound like an idiot..."

"No, no."

"—but it was all that interested me. I forced myself to study, and I thought maybe if I got to university, things would be different... but they weren't. I didn't care about any of my courses. My parents were flipping out all through first year when I came home with a sixty average. They told me to clean up my act or flunk out..." she moved her gaze to the ceiling. "I kind of wanted to leave, to just hunker down in a video store somewhere, maybe get a job and just sort myself out. At least, that was the plan. But..." her eyes found his. He nodded, melancholic.

"Plans change."

She sighed. "Yeah."

He leaned forward. "How did you meet the others?"

She smiled faintly. "Francis saved me when I was escaping from the dorms after they all went to hell. You know what's funny? He saved my life and all, but he was a fucking asshole." They both snickered before she continued.

"But he taught me to toughen up. Kind of made me... I dunno, come to terms with it all, I guess. He's got such a one track mind, and he doesn't ever let fear stop him. I guess... he inspires me to be strong."

He nodded. He knew exactly what she meant.

Someone had taught him to be strong, too.

"I was really glad to meet the others when we did, though. If I had had to hang around Francis by myself for much longer I probably would have committed homicide." She winked. "I liked Louis because I could talk to him more than the others. And he's so positive, whenever I was down he'd make me feel better. In a way, he's just like me—he doesn't have any experience like Bill does, and he's not tough like Francis. He's just as lost as me. And I liked him for that. He makes me feel less alone."

Michael smiled. He didn't know much about the manager but that seemed on money. "What about that other guy? Bill, right? Is he your leader or something?"

She nodded. "He's the leader, all right. Only voice of authority we've got. Bill brought us together, and he saved all our lives. If we didn't have him..." she shook her head. "We'd be dead." She was silent for a moment before continuing. "I think he actually thinks of me as a real member of the group. He gives me the same tasks and responsibilities as any of the others, and he isn't overbearing or condescending just 'cause I'm a girl." She grinned. "I like that."

His smile faded slowly as he turned to look out the window. Les had been like that, right down to the letter. She'd been the one to save him, the one to make him into a survivor. Without her—without any of them—he wouldn't be sitting there now.

"Michael?" she asked, hushed, as she noticed the slight darkening of his gaze. "Are you okay?"

He let out a ragged breath and rubbed his face with trembling hands. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Her voice was calm and tender. "You're not fine."

"I just—" he looked away for something, anything, to look at that wasn't her eyes. If he looked into her eyes, if he saw the genuine compassion swimming there, he'd lose it completely. He closed his eyes tightly against the emotions that followed, willing his voice to remain steady. "They're all dead because of me."

"But I'm alive because of you," she said gently.

He could feel a dull throbbing ache in his chest and the back of his throat. "I don't know about that. It's just that they needed me, and—" he stopped and shook his head. He wouldn't have gone on if she hadn't reached out and taken his hand. Her fingers were soft and cool. "They needed me, and I let them all down. Every time I close my eyes, Zoey... I see their faces..."

Now both of her hands covered his own. He clenched his jaw, letting her hold on to him, knowing that he needed her comfort just as much as she needed to give it. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. But he felt a charge, something floating in the air, unsaid, around both of them.

"Michael..." the tone of her voice caused him to raise his head. Zoey was looking at him there in the dark with an expression couldn't exactly interpret. She leaned in, her clothes cold but her skin warm against his own as she moved onto the sill beside him.

Her face brushed his own as she whispered sweet nothings in his ear. Slowly, he stopped fighting it and let it come, allowing himself to sink into her soothing oblivion. Her hands and lips on his skin were warm.

Rain drummed on the roof.

x x x x

_**Four Days Ago  
**_

_**Fairfield, Pennsylvania:**_

They left Holly's loft at around a quarter past midnight. The city buses hadn't been running for the past couple days, so Ruth had suggested that they take Jacob's Plymouth back to campus. Since the others were already plastered out of their minds, it was once more up to him to be the pinnacle of sobriety and resident baggage boy—the lovely designated driver.

"All right, get your goddamn tongue out of her mouth and hurry up," Michael called over his shoulder, as Holly and Jacob fell against one of the deep green sofas in the apartment lobby, giggling like kindergarten children but performing acts that would terrify them. Ruth was already outside, putting a six-pack of Heineken into the Plymouth's trunk, her black strapped top riding up a good four inches from the accentuated curve of her short shorts. He admired the view out of the corner of his eye while Jacob shot him a somewhat glazed look, Holly's fingers drifting down the back of his jeans. "Show some love, Mikey, my man."

"Don't call me that," he said airily, for likely the eight thousandth time since he and Jacob had been friends. "And if you don't get a move on, I'm leaving without you."

"Lighten up, hon," Holly laughed, stumbling off Jacob and falling against Michael, tossing her arms exuberantly around his shoulders. Her shirt was so thin it was practically transparent, and he turned beet red as she rubbed into him. "He's just playing, isn't he?"

"That I am," Jacob chuckled. Michael disengaged himself, blushing hotly. "Yeah, well... shut up. Let's just go." Laughing, the trio made their way out of the apartment and down to the curb, thick as thieves.

Ruth smiled seductively at him as they drew closer and he wondered, not for the first time, whether that over-the-phone break up with her boyfriend had been on his account. He'd known Ruth only since last year, since she'd been Holly's roommate back when the two of them were living in res. In that time they'd grown quite close, and he'd sometimes catch her glancing meaningfully at him when she thought he wasn't looking.

Shaking his head, Michael pulled Jake's keys from his back pocket and unlocked the doors. "All aboard." At this rate they'd make it back to campus in plenty of time, but he'd been hoping to pick up a milkshake or something before they hit the res party. He didn't like to drink, but being around people who did always made him thirsty. However, he'd fully anticipated his friends' antics (after all, Jake and Holly been like this since they started dating three years ago) and knew that he'd have no such luck.

The three piled in, Holly and Jacob collapsing into the backseat and resuming their makeout session as Ruth slid in next to him, the small silver piercing at her navel glinting in the light from a nearby streetlamp. "Doesn't it ever get old?" she asked playfully. The corner of his mouth lifted. "Yeah. But he makes up for it by getting me free booze sometimes." They laughed and he pulled away from the curb, tires screeching.

The roads were almost completely clear, something that surprised him. As he made his way onto Baker Street and headed towards the centre of town, he noted only a couple of semis parked haphazardly across the road. He didn't pay the lack of cars much heed, however, and he simply jacked the radio and flooded the car with music to drown out Holly's gasping and Jacob's low moans.

Ruth was still giving him _that look_ from the corner of his eye. He tried to keep his attention on the road without seeming to avoid looking at her. "What time do you need to be home by?" he asked, simply for the sake of talking. She smiled, all blonde hair and pink lipstick and soft blue eye shadow.

"I can stay out as late as I want," she said meaningfully. There was an invitation there.

He swallowed, stammering. "Um... I—I can drive you back, if you want. Jake's going to be really drunk, you know, so I'm gonna have to take his keys, and Holly will be sleeping in my room—not with me, I mean, obviously, since I won't be there, but—"

She silenced his babble by laying a warm hand on his knee. "I'd really like that."

His eyes found hers. She was closer to him, much too close. He could count the faint sparkles of glitter that adorned the top of her tanned breasts. Her face inched forward and he swallowed again, wondering why he couldn't feel—

Something ran in front of the car.

"_Jesus!"_

Ruth let out a scream as Michael stomped the brake, his hands jerking the steering wheel sharply to the right. The brakes locked and the tires let out a shrill scream, scoring deep treads into the asphalt as the car swerved dangerously onto the curb. He fought for control, quickly releasing the wheel and manoeuvring the car to a halt. The Plymouth screeched to a dead stop, half-turned to face a set of darkened alleyway that loomed directly before the windshield.

Holly sat up, her porcelain features tight with panic. "What the fuck? What was that?" Jacob leaned forward next to her, breathing hard, one hand looming on the headrest next to Michael's shoulder. His hair was mussed from Holly's fingernails and a small smear of red lipstick had run at the hollow of his throat. "Michael, what the hell happened?"

Ruth was still gasping next to him, her hands clasped tightly between her breasts, shaking her head slightly. Michael swallowed again, his heart ramming a tattoo against his ribs. "I... I saw something. Something ran in front of the car."

"What the fuck do you mean, _something_?" Jacob's brow furrowed. "Was it a raccoon?"

Michael shook his head. "No. It was—I don't know. It seemed sort of..." his voice trailed off.

_Decaying? I could have sworn I saw blood. No—that can't be right. It was just a trick of the light, or something. I was just so freaked that I wasn't thinking straight._

He turned to Ruth, laying a hand on her knee. "Hey, you all right?" She nodded pensively, her chest still fluttering, but she gave him a weak smile. "I think so."

"Well, you saw it, didn't you?" Jacob asked, clearly frustrated. "If it wasn't an animal, then was it a person?"

"I don't know," he said again. Stupidly.

"Ruth, did you see it?" Holly asked, smoothing hair away from her face with slightly trembling fingers. The blonde shook her head. "I saw glowing red eyes. That's it."

"If you guys are trying to be funny, you're failing," Jacob grunted, wiping the lipstick off his neck and unlocking his door with a loud snap. "I'm going to see what that was."

Immediately, Holly seized his arm. "No. Stay here."

He shook her off gently. "Babe, it's fine. There's nothing out there. I just want to make sure nobody was hurt."

Michael reached under his seat and pulled out a heavy tire iron before opening his door. "I'm coming."

"Michael—" Ruth hedged, nervously.

He flashed her what he hoped was a winning smile. "Don't worry. Nothing's gonna happen."

Famous last words.

Together, the two teenagers walked around to the hood of the Plymouth. Jacob leaned over to inspect the fender while Michael glanced around the surrounding streets, his mouth deepening into a frown as he realized something.

The Plymouth was stopped right next to the intersection at Ennerdale and Ena Street, which was only about fifteen blocks from campus. Not only that, but Ennerdale was the first major street since the student apartment complexes they had just left. It was lined with several coffee houses, a diner or two, even a large tavern who specialized in imported brews and amazing rum cocktails that Michael had tried several times with the college crowd. At closing on half past midnight, Ennerdale should have been bright and teeming with nightlife.

But almost every single shop that lined the road was completely dark, windows vacant and blank in the moonlight. The few that did have some lights on looked utterly unoccupied. Michael twisted his head and looked up and down the street. Something else about the scene was bothering him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Jacob straightened up from the fender. "The car's fine. You didn't run over anything."

"I'm telling you, something ran out in front of the car," he replied.

The two stood in the middle of the deserted street. The wind whistled forlornly.

_Where the hell is everybody?_

Ruth honked the horn and Michael nearly jumped out of his skin. Holly rolled down her window. "Come back," she called out. "Whoever it was is gone."

"We've got plenty of time, this place is empty," Jacob responded over his shoulder. It was then that Michael realized what was wrong with the scene.

_There's no traffic. I haven't heard a single car except ours since we left Holly's loft. Not one._

There were plenty of parked cars haphazardly lining up and down the sides of the street, but nobody occupying them. They were simply... there. Almost as though the owners had abandoned them.

He shivered, even though the night was still relatively warm.

"Hey, check it out!" Jacob pointed suddenly. Michael turned and noticed a figure standing in the distance, right in the mouth of the alley at the corner of the street. He felt a warm surge of relief. The streetlamp above the alleyway was out, but he could see the silhouette clearly enough to know it was definitely a person. However, the figure was standing very strangely, almost like an insect.

Michael felt the grin slip off his face.

"Maybe that's the guy," Jacob said.

As they watched, the figure stumbled into the wall of the building next to it. Clearly, whoever they were, they were monumentally drunk.

"What's his problem?" Jacob suddenly frowned, before taking a step forward. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted across the street. "Hey! Buddy! You alright?"

The figure's head snapped up suddenly as Jacob spoke. It stood stock still for a moment.

"Shit, you don't think you actually hit him?" Jacob asked, suddenly alarmed. "What if—"

The figure tore into a sprint, crossing the street between them with terrifying speed. As the shadow lurched into the bright beam of the Plymouth's headlights, Michael jerked back with a shout of alarm.

Half of the man's face had been savagely torn off, revealing a sickening set of teeth permanently drawn into a snarl. Dried blood caked the wound and had spread all across the man's neck and shirt. His hands, drawn into frenzied claws, were covered with small bits of gore, and the erratic gait of the man reminded Michael of some sort of crippled beast.

But what was most horrifying was the expression of pure, unbridled hatred on what was left of the man's face.

He heard screams erupt from the car, but couldn't be sure if it was Holly or Ruth or both of them. Jacob was gaping at the man, unmoving, his expression one of complete disbelief. Michael tripped backwards off the curb in his haste to get away from the—

—_the man, the thing, the _zombie_—_

It slammed right into Jacob. His best friend let out a horrified, choking yelp and staggered back under the weight, the two thrashing together in a tangle of limbs and dark clothes. The psychopath clutched at Jacob's collar, ripping into his shirt and sending one button flying off, wayward, into the dark. As Michael watched numbly, one of the man's cold grey hands grabbed him by the shoulder. The man shrieked in what sounded like perverse triumph before bringing his face to Jacob's arm.

"JESUS—"

It wasn't until much later that a terrible realization came to Michael: he could have almost surely struck the thing from behind while it was busy with Jacob. He had the tire iron, and the man's back was to him; all he had to do was move forward. He could have done it... but he was frozen in fear and the realization that he _could_ have done it never came until it was too late.

"Mich—" Jacob gasped in a breathless, choked voice, and then the man bit down into his arm.

Jacob screamed, a scream so loud it shattered the fog of utter shock that had pervaded his mind and had rooted him to the spot. He was wrenched back to reality as the man pulled away from Jacob, taking with him a huge chunk of skin right from the crook of his elbow. Blood coursed from the wound, _so much good God how can there be so much_ splattering all across the man's eviscerated face and shirt. Michael could hear Holly screaming along with Jacob now, impeccably clear— high pitched, terrified wails that seemed to cut right through him.

With his good arm, still screaming, Jacob rammed his hand into the man's throat, crushing his Adam's apple with extended fingers. The man released his hold at once, spluttering in bitter rage, the chewed flesh from Jacob's arm still stuck between his teeth. Jacob stumbled left, almost pitching forward onto the ground as he clutched at his ravaged arm, eyes wider than saucepans.

"Jake!" Michael cried out as the man lurched forward again, fingers outstretched. Finally, _finally_, he forced himself to move, striking out with the heavy tire iron and catching the zombie directly in the gut. As the man tripped back and fell into the gutter, Michael wrapped Jacob's arm around his shoulder and staggered back to the car, his friend's nearly dead weight slack against his body.

"Ruth, get the wheel!" he ordered.

Her eyes were nearly bulging right out of her head, and she was still screaming, but to her credit, she did as he asked. She scooted across the seat as Holly threw open the back door; Michael dropped Jacob into the backseat and leaped into the passenger's side as the man got to his feet once more.

_No way. Must be on something, a hit like that should have broken his ribs..._

"Get us out of here!" he shouted.

Ruth slammed the gas pedal under one heel and the Plymouth lurched forward, smashing into a mailbox with a loud crash. Michael was thrown forward, his face slamming into the dashboard. He didn't even feel the impact; shock had drowned out all the pain. Ignoring the sticky warmth on his forehead, he looked into the rearview mirror—

—just as the man smashed a fist right through Holly's window.

Holly shrieked as several thick, bloody fingers entwined themselves into her hair. Hissing, the man tried to force his way into the broken window, the shards cutting deep grooves into his face. However, he barely seemed to register the pain, simply snarling and spitting with rage, his beady red eyes fixed on Holly's throat.

Jacob weakly lifted his right leg and thrust it in the man's face, knocking him away from the window. Michael heard a dull thump as the hissing madman struck the cement once more.

"Ruth! It's in drive!" he roared. She reached down to switch the gears, but she was panicking so badly that her hands kept slipping. Michael reached down and wrenched the knob into reverse as the man ran towards the car again. "Now!"

Ruth floored the pedal, sending the car careening backwards onto the street as the man made a wild lunge toward them. He missed and staggered sideways as the car spun into the street. Michael switched the knob into drive again. "Go!"

Ruth pressed the gas and the car raced out of the intersection. The man gave chase, pelting after the Plymouth with uncanny speed.

"Jesus—Jesus—" Ruth panted, turning and craning his neck to watch the creature give chase. "He's still gaining—"

"Jacob! Baby, speak to me!" Holly was sobbing hysterically, her hands covered in blood as she struggled to staunch the wound. Jacob's eyes were fluttering closed, his lips twitching. "Michael! He's starting to pass out!"

Without hesitation he stripped his jacket off, leaving him clad in nothing but his jeans and dress shirt. "Put that on his arm. Wrap it tightly. Make sure you cover the wound completely, okay?"

Holly did as she was told with shaking fingers. "Do not let him fall asleep," he warned. "Jacob, you hear me, man? You're gonna fucking stay awake!"

"Eyes... on the road, sugar pie," Jacob mumbled into his shirt. His chin drooped onto his chest and his eyes were clenched with pain.

Michael almost managed a smile, but the running shadow behind them reminded him that this wasn't over just yet.

"What should I do?" Ruth panicked, her chest heaving. Tears had smeared her eye shadow and run blue tracks down her cheeks.

"Keep driving," Michael instructed.

"Where?"

"Until we get to campus. We need to get Jake's arm bandaged." His best friend was paler than a sheet. Tears were still streaming down Holly's face as she pressed her blood-soaked hands against the wound. Ruth drove further and further on, until the crazed man finally disappeared into the distance.

The Plymouth turned onto Flower Street. Michael's jaw dropped as he took in the scene of devastation before him, seeing but not quite believing. The road was packed to the brim with vehicles. Most of them were piled haphazardly into a massive traffic jam, littering the intersection like fallen dominoes. Several were wrecked beyond recognition, dented and surrounded by broken glass. Others were simply abandoned, their doors wide open, radios still playing. Several were still running, keys in the ignition.

"Oh, my God," Holly whispered, and Michael couldn't help but agree. Ruth gently eased the car around a burning Honda, crushed between a black Mercedes and a telephone pole. The hood of the Honda was completely smashed in, issuing clouds of dark smoke. The window on the front and driver's side was shattered, and the door wide open. Within the car was a young woman, a glass shard impaled in her throat. A shocking amount of blood had dripped out of the open door and pooled on the ground beside her. In the backseat, there was a trail of blood smeared across the seat that continued onto the pavement and away down the street, as though someone had been dragged kicking and screaming away from the car.

Michael's stomach twisted.

_We need to hurry._

The entire city seemed deserted. Streets that should have normally been bustling were dead and vacant. Most of the buildings lining the streets were dark. The only evidence that people had ever lived and worked there were the scenes of utter carnage that littered the streets. Wrecked vehicles and car crashes appeared more often as they drove across the city, and more than once Michael thought he saw several dark shapes slumped across the asphalt, unmoving. He didn't stop to take a good look at them. He knew that if he actually realized what they were, he'd never be able to un-realize it.

_What the fuck is going on? Is this all because of those weird virus reports that have been on the news? But why has everything seemed normal until now? _

"There! There's the gates," Ruth breathed suddenly, and Michael sat up in his seat as the car turned onto University Avenue. The Fairfield University loomed bright and grandiose above them in the night, the buildings stretched across the dark green hills of campus. Michael noticed at once that whatever had struck the city did not seem to have reached the university.

_Finally, luck's on our side._

Jacob let out a groan and gripped his elbow tightly, face white with agony. "Hurts... oh, God, it hurts..."

"You're going to be okay, baby," Holly whispered, clutching at his hand. "You'll be fine..."

"Cold," Jacob mumbled. His entire body was trembling. "I f-feel... really cold..."

"Michael?" Holly asked sharply, her voice rising in panic.

_I don't know. I don't know, fuck, I don't know_, he thought frantically. He had always prided himself on his ability to remain calm in dire situations, but what had happened tonight was beyond anything he could have comprehended. Holly was turning to him like she always did, like when she needed a lift home from the bars, when she and Jacob had their fights, when she needed a solid platonic shoulder to cry on. But Michael wasn't anyone special, and he didn't know anything; he was just another face among foundations, and he was scared shitless.

"Stop here," he said distantly. Ruth brought the Plymouth to a halt right outside the tall, white brick residence that Michael called home. Lights were still pouring from inside and he could hear loud, throbbing music even from inside the car. People were definitely still in there.

"I'm going to get help," Michael said, unlocking his door and jumping out. "Ruth, stay at the wheel. If anyone like that crazy guy shows up, just drive. Go to Mercy Hospital, or try to get to a clinic or something. I'll get help from the front desk."

"Michael, please hurry," Holly whispered tremulously. Jacob's face had taken on a greenish-grey tinge, and he was breathing rather harshly now. Blood soaked the backseat of the car.

"Don't worry," he said, smiling bravely. "I'll be back before you can say—"

"Blueberry pie," they said together. Holly was still crying, but she managed a weak stretch of her lips that wouldn't qualify as a smile even in the most extreme circumstances but would do for now. They were still in sync, just like always. Ruth looked at him with her big, tearstruck eyes, her shoulders trembling. "Please come back," she whispered. "Please."

"I will," he said. "Don't worry."

And he shut the door.

It was the last thing he said to her.

Michael sprinted across the parking lot and wrenched the open the heavy wooden door leading to the dorms. He was immediately greeted by a loud blast of music, nearly deafening him, and the loud echoes of conversation all across the hallway. The res entrance was full of cruising teens, laughing and grinning and slopping beer all over themselves.

_Where's the goddamn desk staff?_ he thought wildly, shoving his way through the crowd as he made his way towards the reception area, not even bothering to apologize as he caused some blonde girl in a miniskirt and gaping top to spill her beer down into her shirt. Ignoring her indignant shrieks, he pushed on. Damn it, he knew he shouldn't have tried to get through the side entrance. The main doors would have been a more reliable bet, but they had probably locked the gates since it was so late.

"Watch it, dude," a voice slurred as he pushed through the crowd, knocking into someone's side.

The music was loud and throbbing in his ears as he made his way down the hall, bypassing a group of drunken teenagers. Almost all the doors on the entire floor were open, and in each doorway a different scene greeted his eyes – a massive crowd of students twisting and dancing to rap music, a heated game of flip cup, a boy and girl frantically making out. At last, he found himself in the hallway leading to the reception desk.

Two RAs were sitting behind the desk, laughing at a television monitor that was playing an old rerun of _Seinfeld. _They didn't spare Michael a glance as he tore up to the desk.

"Help me," he gasped, leaning against the counter, his breath coming in harsh gasps. The RAs looked over at him, the laughter fading from their faces as they took in his dishevelled shirt, his ripped collar, the blood splattered over his clothes.

"Holy shit," one of them said, his eyes widening. "You all right, kid?"

"I'm fine," Michael said hurriedly. "It's my friend, he's hurt, he needs help... there was this crazy guy, and he bit him, and now he's bleeding out there in the car—"

"Someone _bit_ him?" the other RA asked dubiously, gazing at him sceptically. Her voice took on a patronizing tone and her next words were placating, as though talking to a child. "Have you been drinking anything tonight, sir?"

Michael gaped at her. _Is she fucking serious?_

"I haven't been drinking, for fuck's sake! Look, he's hurt real bad, I need a first aid kit or something!"

"If this is your idea of a joke, sir—" the girl started up again. Michael was about to scream in her face that he'd give her something to laugh about, but the male RA cut him off.

"Lisa, are you seeing this guy's clothes? Either he went swimming in paint, or he ain't fucking with us." He fished under the counter and yanked out a bright red first aid kit. "Call campus security, doll." He straightened up and nodded at Michael. "Lead the way, man."

_Thank you, Jesus, thank you._ "Come on, it's just this way—"

At the other end of the hallway, someone screamed.

Michael whirled around, heart pounding. _What the hell was that?_ It was certainly no joyful scream, it sounded full of terror and pain. The unnamed RA next to him was staring wide-eyed down the hallway, surprised. "What—"

Whoever it was screamed again, louder this time. It was so high-pitched that Michael could not even tell if it had been issued by a man or a woman. It was followed immediately by a terrible rasping shriek, audible even through the music, and the loud crash of breaking glass.

All hell broke loose then, a cacophony of yelling and stampeding feet as whatever had caused the commotion spread into the halls. Students began shoving their way towards the stairwells, pushing past their friends and colleagues in pure, unadulterated fear. Michael watched as a young Asian girl elbowed her friend backwards in her haste to escape; someone or _something_ dragged the helpless blonde back into the crowd and she began screaming pitifully, terrified soprano wails that broke into sobs as a harsh ripping sound came from the crowd.

"What's going on?" the RA girl screamed, but Michael was already moving— he sprinted past the surging waves of students, trying to fight every ounce of common sense in his body that screamed at him to _run_ as fast as he could in the other direction. The music tapered off and died with a loud screech as a stereo exploded.

Through the panicked bodies, he saw a dark shape pounce on another and begin tearing into it in the middle of the hallway. Another shadowy form seized a passing girl and rammed her face into the wall before sinking its teeth into her throat. Michael swallowed hard, dizziness being flooded from his system by pure adrenaline. It was like something straight out of a nightmare.

"Michael, _Michael, MICHAEL—_"

Someone was screaming his name. He dodged sideways, avoiding a running teenager whose face was covered with small flecks of blood. He pushed through the crowd, gulping air. "Holly? Ruth! Is that you?"

Something small and warm slammed into his chest. He looked down, seizing her elbows. "Holly!" She was sobbing hysterically, tugging at his arms and gibbering nonsense as she kept glancing behind her. Her normally perfect dark hair was mussed in harried curls and her eyeliner had run dark tracks down her cheeks.

"Holly, what happened?" he bellowed in her ear, but she was completely incomprehensible— she was yelling and screaming and crying all at once and he couldn't decipher a word she was saying; he thought he heard the words "Jacob" and "bit" but he wasn't sure. He felt a warm stickiness under his palm and his blood ran cold: a semicircle of bite marks were stamped right on the pale skin of her left forearm. "Holly! What hap—"

Another scream, this time the loudest and highest pitched of them all. Michael swivelled his head and saw a hooded figure sprinting at them, with fingers that looked to be a little too long and too sharp to be regular fingers. His heart rate spiked and before he could even think he was pulling Holly along with him through a door and into a stairwell leading into the upper floors of the dorms.

He was only up the first flight of stairs before he heard something ram the door behind them. He glanced back and saw several bloody, mutilated students fighting in the doorway, their faces ripped and gushing crimson all over the webbed thick glass. Their eyes glowed with terrible hate. Among them, he saw the blonde in the miniskirt, her now perfect hair matted with blood and small pink chunks. His stomach twisted.

_The girl I dripped beer on...? No, that's impossible. That's impos—_

She raised her hand and shattered the glass with one blow.

He pulled Holly faster. "Come on, Hol, we need to move!"

Sobbing, gasping for breath, she stumbled after him, her heels making her movements awkward and jerky. At the first floor dorms, Michael saw a body facedown on the floor in a pool of blood. Another was crouched over it, ripping flesh from its back with massive claws. Michael gulped and continued up the stairs.

_Please, please, let us get out of this... please..._

He didn't stop running until they spilled through the door onto the third floor—his floor—of the dorms. Thankfully, the entire level was deserted, all the chaos from below conspicuously absent. He immediately pulled Holly down the hall towards his room, frantically digging in his pockets for his key card. For one heart stopping moment he almost thought he'd lost it in the commotion, but then he felt the hard plastic edge in the crook of his pocket and yanked it out. His fingers trembling slightly, he shoved the card into the door slot and tugged Holly into the room with him.

The door shut with a soft click.

No sooner than the door had closed, Holly sank to the floor and burst out into heart wrenching, full-bodied sobs that spiralled horribly in the small room. Michael locked the door and immediately bent down, grabbing her shoulders, trying desperately to calm her. "Holly... Holly, please, you have to be quiet... _Holly..._"

But she was gone. She hunched over, rocking back and forth, her sparkly silver shirt now damp with blood, repeating over and over, "Jacob, Jacob, Jacob..."

Jacob.

_I'm not going back. Sorry, man. I can't._

He didn't ask about Ruth. Just from looking at Holly, he instinctively knew. He knew.

He would never drive Ruth back to her place.

No-one would drive Ruth back to her place.

"Holly," he said gently, taking her wrists and pulling them away from her face. "Honey, I need you to tell me what happened."

But she just shook her head, tears dripping down the corner of her nose, and let out a fresh wail. Giving up, Michael stood up and went into his closet, grabbing the aluminum bat he kept next to his clothes rack in case of emergencies. And if this wasn't an emergency, he didn't know what was.

He made sure the windows and door were securely locked, then immediately switched on his clock radio. His laptop was at Holly's loft, so he couldn't check the internet to see what the hell was going on. His only hope was the airwaves.

He fiddled with the knob, getting nothing but static from several stations. Grimly, he continued to twist. _Come on... there's got to be someone out there transmitting..._

"_Dispatch, I'm at 5th Avenue Street—_" a sharp flare of static made Michael wince. "—_there's just so many! We can't save 'em all!"_

"_Can anybody hear me? CEDA lost the checkpoint—"_ Michael's mouth hardened into a grim line as he heard several dull pounding sounds in the background, followed by a loud rasp and a burst of static. _"The Hewlitt Recreation Center went down— there are still others trapped inside..."_

He changed stations.

"_...days now since last contact with the outside... they're not letting planes out! We need the fucking military!"_

"_You're listening to 777 FC-Radio, the Lucky Station."_ A shaky male voice with fear disguised as bravado._ "And this... this is our last broadcast. The station's surrounded, but we're still on the air. If any of our listeners are still alive, get out of town."_

Michael sat numbly against his bed, holding the garbling radio in his hands. Was it true? Had all of Fairfield succumbed to this... this whatever it was? He fiddled with the knobs.

"_What the hell are those things?"_

"_Oh shit... oh, shit..."_ Panicked panting. A thick, heavy voice._ "We lured a bunch a' those things into the construction pits. Filled the whole fuckin' thing with wet cement. I don't get it! What the bleedin' hell are they? Are they alive or dead?!"_

"_If anyone can hear me, I need help. I'm at 553 Warren Street. They're all over the place..."_

He shut the radio off.

_This many transmissions... this many transmissions and hardly any from the police, or from the military, or from CEDA. _Michael knew that whatever had happened, it had already crippled the municipal government. Almost all of those transmissions had been from panicked civilians, not law enforcement. There was an ongoing battle taking place. And by the looks of things, whatever those creatures were, they were winning.

He dimly realized that Holly's sobs had grown quieter. He looked over at her through glazed eyes. "Hol?"

She sniffled. He moved across the room to her, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Hol, are you all right?"

She shook her head dumbly. "J-Jacob... he was b-b-bleeding... really bad... and I c-couldn't stop it..."

His arm tightened around her. "It's not your fault, Hol."

More tears flowered in her eyes. "He went really white and t-then, he just went s-still. I tried to wake him up... a-and..." she let out another sob. "He b-bit me!"

She help up her arm and Michael swallowed hard, staring at the wound again. He was hardly able to comprehend it. Jacob, bite Holly? He would never hurt her. It didn't make sense. And yet he attacked her, bit her, right after...

His eyes widened in terrible comprehension as it dawned on him. _Right after that crazy guy bit him._

His blood ran cold.

"Holly," he whispered urgently. Her breathing was still laboured, but now—he wasn't sure, but he was now paranoid and terrified—now it was less from her crying and more from something else. Her skin was paler than usual, lacking its normal healthy tinge. "Holly, are you okay?"

She glanced up at him with dim, unseeing eyes. "Michael, Ruth... I tried to get her out but...it hurt, it hurt so bad..."

He closed his eyes. _Ruth, please forgive me. Oh, God, forgive me._ "Holly, I need you to listen to me really carefully, okay?" Her head slumped down. "I need you to tell me if Ruth got bitten too. Can you do that?"

Her head moved up and down against her chest. "I couldn't stop him," she whispered dully. "He c-came back and attacked me. The doors were locked. I couldn't get out. But Ruth was there. She pulled him away, and he b-bit her next. In the n-neck. I had to get away. I crawled out the broken window, and ran. I ran into the res. He followed me in." She began to cry again. "He c-chased me through the crowd, and he attacked people. I just ran. Then I found you."

She was gasping now through sharp intakes of breath. Her skin was now beginning to look grey under the lights from his ceiling. The corners of her eyes were red and bloodshot.

_Shit._

"Holly, stay with me, okay?" he said desperately, squeezing her hands, trying to get her to focus. "You're going to be fine. You're going to be okay—"

"He bit me," she panted. "It hurts so bad..." she began to cry again. "It's not those disease reports on the news, is it, Michael? Oh God, I don't want to die, I don't want to be like them!"

She was weeping desperately now, clutching at her arm. The skin around the bite wound had turned a sickly greenish colour, with a hint of purple. Michael had seen enough zombie movies to know what this meant. Hell, he'd been a fan of Romero since day one.

Holly's eyes fluttered shut and she let out a choked gurgle. Panicked, Michael immediately placed his palms on her cheeks. "Holly! Holly, don't you die on me! _Holly!_"

"I'm so— so sorry, Michael—" she sobbed, and then she leaned over vomited blood all over the carpet. He leapt back, horrified, as she slumped over sideways, her entire body heaving. Her lips opened and closed, as though she were trying to say something, but before she could choke it out, her body slackened and she went still on the blood-stained rug.

_No..._ He stared at Holly—Holly's body— in abject shock. _This isn't happening. This is not happening._

Suddenly, Holly pushed herself up on her arms. Michael's eyes widened and he grabbed her shoulder. "Hol! You okay?"

She turned to look at him and the second those cold red eyes landed on him, he knew.

He threw himself backwards as Holly—_it wasn't Holly anymore_—came at him, her teeth gnashing as a furious snarl ripped from her throat. She latched onto his shirt and the two tumbled onto the floor. Michael let out a grunt as her closed fist landed in his stomach, driving air from his lungs.

The thing that was Holly shrieked like a banshee bent over him, salivating wildly; long tendrils of yellowed spit dripping from her frothing mouth. Michael choked as one of her hands closed on his mouth, digging into his jaw. Before he could stop it, a thick glob of her saliva landed directly in his open mouth.

Gagging, his throat burning from the rancid, sour taste, Michael's right hand groped around for a weapon as he struggled to keep Holly's teeth from his face with his left. His fingers closed around the cold handle of the bat. Grimacing, he tightened his grip on it—_I'm sorry, Hol—_and swung it at her face.

He didn't miss, or hit her with a glancing blow. The bat hit her dead-on, breaking her jaw and sending a handful of teeth flying across the room. Holly fell sideways off him and he scrambled to his feet, repulsed. Her mouth was a gaping red hole, unhinged and dripping. Years of expensive orthodontic work now littered the floor of his bedroom. The Holly-corpse rose up from the carpet again, still glaring at him with those terrible, red eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, and he swung at the same time she moved forward. This time the bat caved in her nose, destroying her face. She fell flat on her back, twitching, her arms and legs still thrashing wildly. Sickened, hating himself for what he was doing, Michael placed his foot on her neck to hold her in place and brought the bat down again. What was left of Holly's face exploded under the metal tip. Michael took one look at the mess of gore that used to be her head and threw up, splattering his bed with vomit. Gagging, feeling the acrid burn deep in his throat, Michael staggered away from her body. His hands clawed at his throat; he was going to hyperventilate.

He had to get out of that room. Never mind what lay outside, he was getting the fuck out of there.

He stumbled into the hallway with the bat in his hands, collapsing against the opposite wall. He heaved air into his lungs, steadying himself with his hands on his knees. His mind was static. Amidst the horror, the sadness, the adrenaline, one thing stood out. One thing.

He brought a shaking hand up and touched his lips. He felt a trickle of Holly's saliva and wiped it away. He held his wet fingers in front of his face and surveyed them with morbid fascination.

He was infected.

Whatever had gotten into Jacob and Holly's body and transformed them into monsters had surely made it into his system by now. There was nothing he could do—he was going to die here, in an unfamiliar and unforgiving city, alone.

He shook his head, refusal warring with disbelief.

"Fuck."

But even if he was doomed, he wasn't just going to lie down and accept death like a condemned prisoner. If he had time left, then he was going to use it. His fingers tightened around the bloodied handle of the bat. There was a loud smash from somewhere downstairs and he started wildly.

First things first: he had to get the hell out of the res.

He set off at a dead trot, neither hurrying nor lagging. The floor was still relatively deserted; he could see no sign of the red-eyed creatures from below, nor could he see any students. He tried a few of the doors as he moved along, but they were all locked. It seemed that any remaining students had evacuated the building.

There was a door leading down to another stairwell, one that would bring him out into the quad if he followed it. Michael wasn't entirely savvy on the idea of going out into a locked, enclosed area that for all he knew was full of the fucking things, but at least it was wider than this cramped hallway. If something came up on him he'd have nowhere to run.

_Besides,_ he thought, _I can just climb one of the fences leading to the parking lot when I get outside. Then I can try to make a break for Jacob's car, if it's still there._

With that cheering thought, Michael started down the stairs, when a high pitched scream floated from the hall he had just left. He stopped in the middle of the stairwell between the second and third floor, staring up at the door that joined the top floor of his unit to the next. Someone—or something— began pounding on the other side wildly.

_It's one of those fucking things, just run!_

He took off down the stairs, but barely got three steps before someone screamed again. It was a pitiful sound, and he froze in midstep, his body wracked with indecision. Tortured, he looked back up at the door, which was shaking on its hinges. Whoever was behind it wailed again and the pounding grew harder. Whoever was on the other side was either dying or about to die.

_And you're just standing there like an idiot, watching! Jacob, Ruth, Holly... it's all because you just sat there, you didn't act. So stop being a fucking statue and _do something!

"Fuck!" he cursed angrily, spinning around and dashing up the steps. Before he could take another moment to second guess himself, he snapped the lock back and wrenched the door open.

The first thing he noticed was Maxwell, the hall monitor. He had been a big guy, heavyset and strong, but with a gentle attitude that put everyone at ease. He was friendly as hell, capable of making anyone laugh. But he didn't look friendly now. The stance of his body was rigid and harsh, and his face was contorted with rage and blood was coursing down his neck from a big flap of hanging skin that was dangling and swinging like a pendulum.

He wasn't aware of the girl until he followed Maxwell's eyes. She was short and cowering on the floor, so he had looked completely over her. She gazed up at him through beautiful blue disaster-victim eyes, brown hair askew, sweater rumpled.

Maxwell salivated above her from behind.

The brown eyes met the red, and they both moved at the same time.

* * *

A/N: I deeply apologize to all those who have been wondering what has happened to this story as of late. I removed most of my chapters because I didn't like the direction the story was going, so I decided to revamp it and change a lot of things to make it easier on myself later down the road. As you can see, many changes have been made. The length of time it's taken me to update has been almost entirely due to my final exams, and a large host of essays I had to write, which have essentially taken away every single bit of my free time. Also, a wide host of family issues concerning both my brother's new business, my father's move, and of course, the holidays, have come up as well.

(I still found time to keep up with season three of Californication though - and the season finale! Hot damn!)

I assure you, updates will come more consistently from now on, since my schedule next semester will hopefully be lighter than this one.

Thanks to all of you who have stuck with this story. Please let me know what you think about this chapter, if I took a huge leap that failed dismally or if this makes the story somewhat richer. I hope you'll all keep me company as we go on through the lovely world of Left 4 Dead.

Play nice. Kill zombies. :)

- Solar


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